


The Mushroom of Fortune

by Zinneth (Zoya_Zalan)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ardor in August, Ardor in August 2015, Fate, Humor, M/M, Minor Angst, There's Always a Catch, Wishes, crack!fic, magic spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya_Zalan/pseuds/Zinneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fickle is the wish that meddles with Fate.</p>
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    <a href="http://imgbox.com/q3dBRJ7v"></a>
    <img/>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nuinzilien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuinzilien/gifts).



> This story is my response to the following Ardor in August prompt:
> 
> ~ * ~ * ~  
>  **Rating up to** = NC-17
> 
> **Requested pairing** = Any Fellowship/ Thranduil
> 
> **Story elements** = What if the Fellowship had passed through Mirkwood instead of Lothlorien after leaving Moria? (feel free to ignore the geographical awkwardness of that). I'm perfectly fine with Crack, non-crack, fluff, romance or serious. I just prefer no heavy angst, but other than that, whatever way the Muses lead, I'm good with.
> 
> **Do NOT include** = no death (other than in reference), no rape/ non-con (again, reference to it is acceptable), no scat, no watersports.  
>  ~ * ~ * ~
> 
> **Disclaimer** : J.R.R. Tolkien et al own all things related to the wonderful characters and lands of Middle Earth; I’m just borrowing. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> **Acknowledgements** : Many thanks to my awesome betae, Ignoblebard and Carol, for all their help and support. Any mistakes in the final draft are mine alone.
> 
> It was a pleasure to write this for you, Nuinzilien — I hope you enjoy it!

~ * ~ * ~

**Let it be known that on this day, December the 25th, in the year three-thousand and eighteen of the Third Age, Middle-Earth, did the Fellowship of the Ring set forth from Rivendell on a quest to destroy the One Ring. Their burden is great, and their journey will be fraught with many dangers unforeseen, yet they carry within their hearts the hope of all who would see darkness forever banished from these lands.**

**Let their names and their courage be remembered by all:**  


  
**The Ring-Bearer, Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo**  
**Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer**  
**Aragorn, son of Arathorn**  
**Legolas Thranduilion**  
**Gimli, son of Glóin**  
**Boromir, son of Denethor II**  
**Peregrin Took, son of Paladin II**  
**Samwise Gamgee, son of Hamfast**  
**Meriadoc Brandybuck, son of Saradoc**  


Thranduil Oropherion let the scroll, newly arrived by carrier bird, slip from his fingers, where it floated downward, settling amongst the clutter of his desk. He sank heavily into his chair, a wave of distress overwhelming him. 

“It begins...” His whisper, so remarkably loud in the stillness of his study, begged the question he was loath to voice: _But how will it end?_

Ghastly memories resurfaced against Thranduil’s will: an expansive swath of death and destruction on the plains of Dagorlad... his father, Oropher, lying in a pool of blood and filth, his fëa already departed to Mandos’ Halls... all the grief and fear and hatred that followed, twisting together like a sharp, multi-pronged blade slicing through his own heart. And now...

With a deep, deliberate breath, Thranduil clenched his jaw. He glared at the piece of vellum, gaze focused on his son’s name, written in such careful, elegant script. It was nestled safely amongst those of the other brave souls willing to forfeit their lives if necessary, all in the name of peace. Legolas’s journey would retrace Thranduil’s own path straight to Mordor, straight to the same unrelenting evil he had faced more than an Age ago. And because of that, Thranduil understood better than most the full magnitude of the quest at hand.

There was nothing safe about it. Nothing at all.

A soft knock on the door pulled Thranduil from his thoughts. “Enter.”

Galion, his butler, poked his head inside the room. “Radagast has arrived, my lord.”

“Send word to the healers.”

“I have already done so.”

“Very good,” Thranduil said as he got up. Since his advisors were more than capable of handling the necessary details, he didn’t usually make a point of greeting the peculiar wizard during his stops. Doing so today, however, would be a most welcome distraction. Offering Galion a curt nod, Thranduil slipped past him and made his way into the dimly lit corridor.

By the time he reached the antechamber just inside the main gates, it was already brimming with artisans of the Woodland Realm. They stood ready to trade their wares for rare herbs found only in the southern regions of Mirkwood and potent elixirs brewed by Radagast himself — all things desperately needed by their healers.

Thranduil paused in the entryway, observing the proceedings curiously. The bartering was well underway, though it was nothing more than a loose formality. According to what he’d been told, the wizard’s tastes never veered far from basic foodstuffs, baubles, and forged wares, and he never insisted upon exacting terms, accepting only what he really needed in return. His willingness to harvest and trade the healing herbs made Radagast the most valuable merchant east of the Misty Mountains, despite his rather bizarre disposition.

Meandering his way through the throng, Thranduil passed the healers, who were hard at work sorting the newly acquired bundles and phials. Their smiles and animated chatter were a welcome sight... a blessing, really, amid the ominous and oppressive air that currently held Mirkwood — and, indeed, all of Middle-earth — hostage. It certainly appeared as though they would be well stocked with curative supplies for the winter without having to dispatch their own gathering parties.

He was but a few steps from his goal when the wizard, still dripping from the early morning showers, turned in his direction. “Ahh, Thranduil! Most esteemed Lord of the Woodland Realm, I bid a very robust and good morrow to you!” Radagast called. The song birds nesting beneath his ridiculous hat all chirped and fluttered, struggling to right themselves when he removed it and offered the Elven-King a low, respectful bow.

Thranduil’s brows knitted together as a small puddle of rainwater and bird poo plopped to the floor at his feet. One deep breath and ten silently counted heartbeats later, he offered Radagast a weak smile that contained all the warmth he could possibly muster. “Welcome to my Halls.” _Next time, Thranduil, let your advisors handle the wizard..._

Radagast straightened, flashing him a toothy grin. “As always, I am most happy to be of service.”

“We’ve come to expect your visits a bit earlier in the season,” Thranduil commented, eyeing the wooden sled parked nearby. Six brown rabbits were perched on its rickety frame, all carefully grooming themselves around the harnesses they wore.

“Yes, well, Rhosgobel fell into disrepair thanks to those vile spiders. Such nasty, nasty creatures! I wanted to finish all the patch work before any more inclement weather set in.”

“And how long will we be... graced with your company?” Thranduil asked, forcing himself to remain polite even though the stench of dirty, wet clothing and animal droppings was beginning to churn the contents of his stomach.

Radagast scratched his beard with a filthy finger. “Not long, unfortunately. I’m due to arrive in Dale by nightfall. I’ve a rather large order of Essence of Cabbage to deliver.”

“Essence of Cabbage?” What an odd notion.

The wizard chuckled. “One of the Mead Hall tavern keeps is convinced a drop or two of this tonic, added to one’s beverage of choice, prevents all the ensuing aftereffects of drunkenness.”

Curious, Thranduil asked, “And does it?”

“Of course not. All it does is make them toot more, which I’m sure livens up the taproom by the end of the evening. A stronger variant of Essence of Mint is what the tavern keep is looking for, but since he’s quite large and smelly and prone to much incivility, I simply keep making what he asks for. A nip of the Blackberry ale I receive in exchange is most welcome on a cold winter’s day.”

A wayward thought struck Thranduil at that very moment, its implications making him slightly light-headed. “You concoct things other than healing draughts,” he murmured. Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier?

Radagast’s bushy brows rose. “Is there something specific that you seek, my lord?”

Glancing around the room to be sure those gathered were otherwise occupied, Thranduil leaned closer to the wizard. “Have you anything that grants... protection?” he asked quietly. While he felt far more comfortable with the tangible, controllable aspects of the world around him, Thranduil was more than willing to entertain anything that would assure his son’s safe return from the clutches of evil.

“I’ve no potions to that effect, but there is a spell. From what or whom, exactly, are you trying to protect yourself?”

“It is not for me.”

“Ah, well,” Radagast replied, “I would need to be in the presence of the person to whom the spell will apply, and even then it’s a rather minor incantation, very limited in power and scope.”

Thranduil’s expression fell, helplessness gnawing at his heart. Was there nothing he could do beyond entreating Ilúvatar himself? His would be nothing more than one prayer lost amid countless others, mere background noise to the supreme deity.

“I do, however,” the wizard continued, his blue eyes sparkling, “have something that will grant a wish...”

“A wish?” Thranduil whispered, a tiny flicker of hope beginning to warm his soul.

Shuffling over to his sled, Radagast began digging through his various packs, muttering incoherently to himself. “Aha!” he finally exclaimed, pulling a carefully wrapped cloth bundle from one of them.

Thranduil stepped closer, watching with bated breath as Radagast untied and pulled back the folds to reveal... “A mushroom?” he asked, somewhat disappointed. The delicate fungus had an unusual pinkish-white cap with light green gills beneath. It was a variety Thranduil had never seen before, but really... a mushroom?

“Not just any mushroom,” the wizard proclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. “This,” he continued softly, “is the _Mushroom of Fortune_. It is imbued with the very blessings of the Belain.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened. The Belain, should they be so moved, had the power to level mountains or change the course of history. They had the power to heal, to offer mercy... _to protect!_ Still, a tendril of disbelief wove its way into his resolve. He couldn’t help but toss the wizard a suspicious glare.

Radagast held up his hand. “I know what you’re thinking, but I jest not.”

“What reassurances could you possibly offer with a claim as incredible as this?”

“Well, you do know where I live,” the wizard admitted sheepishly. At Thranduil’s obvious confusion, he continued, “The pits of Sauron’s spawn hath no fury like King Thranduil scorned — or so they say. I’m not very keen to test that theory, if you catch my gist.”

Thranduil wasn’t entirely convinced. “From where did you procure this?”

“I didn’t procure it,” Radagast replied. “I saved it, and trust me when I say you don’t wish to know from whom. It’s a rather grisly tale.”

Thranduil stared at the fungus, so seemingly innocent and benign. What did he have to lose? Speaking of which... “What would you ask for in return?”

Another grin found its way to Radagast’s face. “Given the powerful nature of its enchantment, I think it’s worth... ohhh, perhaps a few barrels of your finest Dorwinion Red?”

Jaw clenched, Thranduil glowered at the wizard. There were only two things in this world he considered precious beyond all measure: his son and his wine. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, knowing any argument clamoring in the back of his mind was worthless in the face of his son’s potential safety. “As you wish,” he finally conceded.

“Delivered to Rhosgobel in three days’ time?”

Thranduil gaped, his expression darkening. An overland journey through the most dangerous part of Mirkwood, just to deliver wine? Such a task would require at least half a guard detail to ensure safe passage!

“I haven’t enough room on my sled, you see,” Radagast continued, seemingly unconcerned with the rapidly cooling social temperature surrounding them, “and I have at least three more stops to make before my journey is complete.”

“That’s a rather bold request.”

“Well,” Radagast murmured, already starting to wrap the mushroom back up, “if you’re not interested, I’m sure I can find—”

“All right!” Thranduil hissed quietly. “Two barrels, delivered.” Radagast the Fool, indeed; the wizard was far craftier than he could have ever imagined. “This had better work,” he warned.

“Oh, you have my word it will.” Radagast passed the fungus to Thranduil. Before letting go, the wizard’s expression grew somber. “Choose your wish very wisely before eating the mushroom, my lord, for this is no simple spell. It is divine in nature — big ears will be listening, so take care to remember: _fickle is the wish that meddles with Fate..._ ”

Radagast continued his admonitory nattering, but his voice quickly faded into the background. Thranduil’s world had already narrowed to the small bundle cradled in his hands. A single wish. A single mushroom, consumed, and Legolas would be safe. That was all that mattered.

“...so bear that in mind, as well,” the wizard finished, watching as Thranduil carefully stashed the mushroom away in a hidden pocket inside his robe. When he didn’t respond, Radagast’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you quite certain you understand _everything_ , my lord?”

“Yes, yes,” Thranduil murmured impatiently. “You have been most helpful. I hope you enjoy your wine,” he offered before turning and winding his way back through the antechamber, leaving the wizard blinking in surprise.

Thranduil stopped briefly to give orders for the wine delivery to one of his stewards, and then set off for his study as fast as his long legs could carry him. The corridors of his Halls had never seemed so long or so dreary, the dimness a fitting metaphor for his beloved son’s fate. But now Thranduil had a reason to believe all would be well, and he clung to that with all that he was.

On reaching the safety of his private chambers, he unlatched the door to his study and hurried inside, remembering at the last moment to hang the elegant cord of dried oak leaves on the peg just outside. It was a signal to his servants that he wished to remain undisturbed. After closing and locking the door, Thranduil made for his desk, where he finally set his precious bundle down and unwrapped it.

The mushroom was striking, really, a dizzying array of whites and pinks all swirled together in an intricate, repetitive pattern that shimmered lightly. The delicate brown stem had rippled tiers, the edges of which sparkled with the same pinkish-white coloring, as well. Even its scent, so sweetly fragrant, was a far cry from the earthy pungency he’d been expecting. It all hinted at something transcendent... something magical and powerful. And it was his to command.

Thranduil inhaled deeply, meditating on that sudden realization. His wish had to be perfectly worded; there could be no ambiguity whatsoever, and that would require thought. And time. The Fellowship’s journey was just beginning though, and they were still far from the wretched evil of Mount Doom. Yes, he had time...

Rewrapping the mushroom, Thranduil laid it carefully in one of his desk drawers, taking care to secure it with lock and key. He then grabbed a stack of parchment and his quill, eagerly beginning his own quest for the perfect utterance to set the magic in motion.

_I wish that the Fellowship of the Ring should succeed in their quest._

He paused, rereading what he’d written. It was a noble sentiment, yes, but not one that would guarantee anyone’s safety, much less Legolas’s. Scratching it out, he tried another thought.

_I wish that Legolas Thranduilion should survive the quest to destroy the One Ring._

Yes! Succinctly stated, with little room for misinterpretation...

Thranduil’s gaze reluctantly slid to the proclamation he’d received from Rivendell, focusing on the names written there. All nine of them. And suddenly, his heart felt very, very heavy.

Frodo Baggins. The name rang a bell. Thranduil had encountered a Baggins once, a clever halfling who’d liberated a group of dwarves from his own dungeons.

Mithrandir. Was there anyone in Middle Earth who didn’t know and admire the curious old wizard? His incomparable fireworks displays during Mereth-nuin-Giliath were the stuff of Mirkwood legend.

Aragorn, otherwise known as Strider. A man perched on the cusp of greatness should he only reach out and see fit to embrace his destiny. Thranduil knew him well.

Gimli, son of Glóin. A dwarf, obviously. Glóin, Glóin, Glóin... something about that name sounded vaguely familiar.

Boromir. The current Steward of Gondor’s son. A mighty and capable warrior, he had heard.

Samwise, Peregrin, and Meriadoc... more halflings, Thranduil surmised, though why the Council of Elrond had deemed it acceptable to send so many innocents on such a grave quest, he could not understand.

With a heavy sigh, Thranduil set down his quill and got up. It was far too early in the day for wine to be flowing, but it was something he desperately needed right now. Filling his goblet to the brim, he took a sip, relishing the warmth that seemed to slide all the way down to his toes. It did little to lift his spirits, though.

Was it selfish of him to want to protect his son? Thranduil considered this, coming to the conclusion that no, it was not. Was it selfish of him to want to protect his son at the potential expense of those with whom he was traveling? The answer to that was all too painfully clear. Thranduil was overbearing in nature, rigid in his ruling, and overly cautious when dealing with outsiders — all qualities that had helped keep his kingdom safe without the help of one of the Rings of Power, yet he understood well the value of all life. On a quest as important and perilous as this, no one being could take precedence.

Tipping his head back, Thranduil downed the rest of the wine. Then he filled his goblet again, nearly spilling its entire contents when inspiration struck anew. He rushed back to his desk and took up his quill once more.

_I wish that the entire Fellowship should survive the quest to destroy the One Ring._

Thranduil smiled at his ingenuity... but that smile quickly began to fade as he pondered further. What if the success of the quest was dependent upon the sacrifice of certain lives? Wishing for all to survive could irrevocably change the course of history, possibly allowing Sauron to succeed with his diabolical plans. Middle-earth could be lost to evil...

“Oh, for the love of Eru,” Thranduil whispered, exasperated by the conundrum in which he found himself. He gulped more of his wine, needing to numb the sense of dread he felt growing in the pit of his stomach.

_I wish that the entire Fellowship should both survive and succeed in their quest to destroy the One Ring._

Technically, that was asking for two things. Would the Belain honor both? Probably not. Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw began to hurt, Thranduil tried another possibility.

_I wish that the quest to destroy the One Ring should be successful without sacrificing Legolas Thranduilion’s life._

Now he was back to being selfish again... Growling, Thranduil dropped his quill and crumpled up the parchment, throwing it into the still smoldering embers of his fireplace. He watched with some satisfaction as the vellum succumbed to the elements, igniting into flames that spent themselves quickly, leaving naught but a small sprinkling of ash behind. What an impossible situation.

It should have been so simple. And yet, it wasn’t.

_Fickle is the wish that meddles with Fate_ , Radagast had told him. Be very careful what you wish for. Very careful, indeed.

That warning continued to haunt Thranduil the next day, and the day after... and then the day after that. Hundreds of sheets of parchment met their fiery end in the Elven-King’s fireplace, and yet he continued to work relentlessly, trying to find that perfect combination of words. A bottle of wine turned into two... then a small keg... and finally, an entire barrel was brought to his study, much the same as those that had been transported to Rhosgobel. Ignoring Galion’s worried expression, Thranduil forsook his bejeweled goblet entirely and commanded the butler to bring him the largest ale mug that could be found. One of Dwarven make, as it turned out.

It was from that same mug that Thranduil drank three very long weeks later. He was still at his desk, still staring at the pile of parchment paper in front of him, still twirling his quill in the other hand, ready to compose yet another prospective wish. The sense of urgency he felt was nearly palpable; the longer he delayed initiating the wish, the closer Legolas got to Mordor.

Thranduil was already deep into his second mug of wine for the evening, not that it mattered. The weight of innumerable consequences was suffocating him, with or without the potent brew. He took a hearty quaff, and then another. His vision was mostly blurred from lack of rest and his head swam, but the soft buzzing in his ears offered some measure of comfort. It went on like this for hours until, in a moment of profound despair, Thranduil finally set his mug down, buried his head in his hands, and wept. He was tired... tired of weighing the fate of his son against that of all Middle-earth. He just wanted Legolas to be safe. Was it so wrong for a father to long for such?

Thranduil grabbed blindly for the key to his desk drawer. Unlocking the compartment, he pulled out the bundle and laid it before him. It had become the bane of his existence, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. Clumsy fingers undid the folds of material, exposing the delicate mushroom at last. It hadn’t shriveled up or spoiled — yet another sign of its magical properties. Instead, it sat quietly, mocking him with each resplendent sparkle on its surface.

Without conscious thought, Thranduil picked up the mushroom, mesmerized by its radiance. Perhaps it was time to end this, destiny be damned. Holding it close, he whispered the first words that managed to filter through his overwhelming despair: “Please... let me see my son again.” Then he pushed the mushroom past his lips and chewed every last savory bite. Leaning back in his chair, the King of the Woodland Realm closed his tired eyes and swallowed, entirely unaware of the invisible vortex of magical energy that swirled around him, reaching higher and higher, past the living, breathing walls of his fortress and into the sky, where it quickly changed trajectory, accelerating towards the peaks of the Misty Mountains.

~ * ~ * ~

****

_Three days later, just beyond the Gladden Fields..._  


 

“Oh, for pity’s sake. You _are_ a ranger, are you not?”

Aragorn craned his neck, shooting a menacing glare in Boromir’s direction. Gritting his teeth, he answered, “You know full well the answer to that.”

The Gondorian warrior was not so easily appeased. “Then why, pray tell, have we been wandering aimlessly for days? I see no fabled Golden Wood in sight!”

With exaggerated patience, Aragorn explained, “A damaged map is not so easily interpreted.”

Boromir snorted, and then began walking away from the company of wearied, heartsick travelers.

“Where are you going?” Aragorn demanded.

“To relieve myself!” Boromir spat. “But you needn’t worry. Unlike you, I am in no danger of getting lost!”

Aragorn watched the man disappear into a thicket. He’d never wanted to strike someone so badly before. Boromir’s constant nagging had frayed his nerves ever since they’d left Moria behind three days ago.

_Three days..._

With a heavy sigh, he refocused his attention on the tattered map in his hands. Much of the ink had bled, leaving both words and landforms misshapen or altogether obliterated. Not even his lengthy travels across Middle-earth had permanently etched their intended path into his mind’s eye. Without the valuable resource of an intact map, he could only make an educated guess as to which direction they needed to turn.

“Mister Aragorn, sir?”

The hesitant voice stirred him from his thoughts. Aragorn glanced down at the hobbit who had quietly appeared at his side. Poor Samwise Gamgee sounded as utterly guilty as he looked.

“I’m so sorry I dropped the map into the water,” Sam continued. “When Mister Boromir was plodding us across the river, the clasp of my haversack must have come undone. All I saw were my rations falling into the water, and I panicked. Then I got really hungry.”

“Sam—” he began, but the hobbit cut him off.

“I never felt it slip out. Honest! I was so focused on rescuing the food that I didn’t even know what happened until Mister Frodo snatched the map from the current and yelled at me. My stupid stomach got us lost,” Sam finished. He looked to be on the verge of tears.

Aragorn had to resist the urge to chuckle. “Sam, it was an accident. Accidents happen.” He gave the hobbit’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll get through this.”

Still looking forlorn, Sam wandered back towards his friends, but the space beside Aragorn wasn’t empty for long. Legolas eased closer to him, murmuring, “We should keep moving. Finding a safe place to camp before nightfall is imperative.”

“Agreed.”

As soon as Boromir returned, the company pressed onward, the sparsely wooded area they’d just traversed giving way to a much thicker canopy of trees. The air was dank, oppressive, and very, very still. There were no signs of birds, rodents, or small game anywhere. The pinched expression on Legolas’s face caused Aragorn no small amount of worry as they moved deeper into the forest. Something was very wrong here.

“Legolas?” he whispered. The elf could see and hear far better than any human, giving him a definite advantage in situations such as this.

“I do not believe the river we crossed back there was the Nimrodel at all, Aragorn,” Legolas replied, his gaze scanning both trees and underbrush. “I think it was the Anduin. This is all starting to look very famil—”

A large group of elves suddenly burst through the foliage on all sides, including from above, their bows nocked and ready to deliver fatal shots to the trespassers. The Fellowship as a whole stopped in their tracks, eyes widening at the sheer number of weapons pointed in their direction.

“—ilar,” Legolas finished, just as one of the elves in front of them relaxed his posture and his weapon.

The tall, dark-haired elf stared at Legolas a few moments longer, undisguised confusion coloring his expression. Then he spoke, his words causing more than a few eyebrows to rise.

“ _Hîr nín Legolas_?”

~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations** :  
> fëa = soul  
> Belain = Sindarin word for the Valar  
> Mereth-nuin-Giliath = literally, “Festival Under the Stars”  
> Hîr nín Legolas? = My Lord Legolas?  
> Ada/Adar = Dad/Father  
> Ion nín = my son  
> Mae govannen, i vrannon nín = Well met, my lord  
> Arda = the world  
> Anor = the sun  
> Ithil = the moon  
> elleth = female elf  
> Nenya = The Ring of Water, worn by Galadriel


	2. Chapter 2

~ * ~ * ~

“This council is adjourned,” Thranduil declared, acknowledging his advisors with a pleased nod. He stood slowly as they dispersed, his good spirits dampening as soon as he caught sight of his trusted butler slipping into the room, looking all out of sorts.

“My lord,” Galion spoke quietly. “We have guests.”

“Guests?” This was highly unusual.

“They’ve come from Rivendell,” the butler explained, “and Prince Legolas is amongst them.”

Thranduil’s heart stopped. Legolas... here? “Where are they?”

“They were being shown to the royal reception area—”

Thranduil pushed past Galion, his stately robes billowing in his haste. Was it possible the quest had already been completed successfully? Was Middle-earth free from the clutches of evil, with Legolas safe and sound? Any ideas to that effect dissipated the moment the Fellowship came into view. Thranduil stepped up to the reception area below his throne and peered at the travelers one by one, noting their bedraggled appearance and the somber atmosphere that clung to them like the baleful mists of the Dead Marshes.

One of the halflings shifted, catching a perfectly aimed shaft of late afternoon sun that spilled through one of the few windows in the cavern-like chamber. Thranduil’s gaze followed the glint of light until his eyes beheld a golden ring hung around the halfling’s neck. There was no mistaking the sense of dread that filled him when he gazed upon it; this was the very object the Fellowship had been sent to destroy. The One Ring — malevolence incarnate wrapped in an innocent-looking package.

Thranduil’s eyelids slid shut, a wave of indescribable anguish seizing his soul. They had not completed their quest at all; indeed, it had barely begun. And now, through his own selfish actions, the Fellowship had been redirected here, bringing great evil with them. Sauron’s eye was no doubt fixed on Mirkwood now, a very familiar milieu. The whole situation was beyond dangerous, and Thranduil had no one to blame but himself.

“Ada?”

That one word, so softly spoken, broke through his despair. He opened his eyes to find Legolas had approached. The young warrior’s clothing and face were smudged with dirt, remnants of the Fellowship’s trials, but the smile he wore spoke of the strength and determination in his heart.

“Ion nín,” Thranduil whispered. He reached up and gave his son’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. He could rant and fume all he liked about the circumstances, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the Belain had granted his wish. Pondering on the timing of this reunion and whether or not it foreshadowed ill tidings would be a fruitless labor. It was far better for him simply to cherish the opportunity instead, making sure the Halls were a safe haven for the Fellowship as long as they felt it necessary to stay.

Thranduil signaled one of the guards, who approached without delay. “I want all patrols doubled — stationary watches, as well,” he told the warrior. “If anything looks, smells, or sounds out of the ordinary, shoot it. Then notify me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He watched the guard leave, his gaze then wandering back over the weary travelers. Four halflings, a dwarf, two humans... Thranduil’s brow furrowed. “I was informed there were nine of you. Where is Mithrandir?” he asked.

Grief swam in Legolas’s blue eyes. “He stood against Durin’s Bane in the Mines of Moria, allowing the rest of us to escape unharmed,” he answered quietly. “They were still locked in battle when the arch they stood upon gave way and fell into the depths. He is lost to us.”

Thranduil swallowed thickly. The mightiest of them had already fallen. Who would be next? “We will honor his memory this night,” he whispered solemnly.

Legolas tugged lightly at his elbow. “Will you come welcome our guests, Ada?”

“Of course.” He followed his son across the small terrace, coming to a stop in front of the travelers. “I am King Thranduil of Mirkwood,” he continued, placing his right hand above his heart and inclining his head. “You are all very welcome here in my Halls.”

“Adar, may I present Boromir of Gondor,” Legolas introduced. “Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Sam of the Shire...”

The halflings all bowed respectfully, the movement drawing Thranduil’s gaze back to the accursed band that hung around the Ringbearer’s neck. Noticing his interest, the halfling quickly stuffed the ring behind his tunic, out of view. Frodo Baggins looked far too young to be carrying such a burden. How had this all come to be, he wondered.

“Aragorn has been our guest a number of times,” Legolas continued with a smile.

“ _Mae govannen, i vrannon nín_ ,” Aragorn said, returning the Elf-King’s gesture of greeting.

“And this,” Legolas finished, “is Gimli of Erebor.”

The dwarf’s dark eyes were filled with much loathing as Thranduil gazed upon him. The elves of Mirkwood had had no dealings with the dwarves of Erebor since the Battle of the Five Armies, and with good reason. That his son would have to endure the company of one for the duration of this quest left a rather bad taste in Thranduil’s mouth. Still, the Fellowship’s purpose and the bravery of those who had undertaken it did much to soothe his feelings on the matter. The dwarf would be treated as any other honored guest.

“So,” Gimli stated, his tone low and menacing. He took a step forward, hands curling into fists. “You’re the one who imprisoned my father.”

Thranduil bristled, jaw clenching. It suddenly came back to him in a flash — the dwarf’s father, Glóin, had been amongst the company of Thorin Oakenshield, whose journey to reclaim Erebor had taken an ill-fated detour into Thranduil’s territory. That’s why the name had sounded so familiar. Perhaps the dungeons would be a far better resting place for this particular _guest_.

Before he could even open his mouth to offer a scathing rebuke, the dwarf’s expression morphed most unexpectedly. “He never mentioned you were more fair than all the jewels beneath the earth,” Gimli gushed, his eyes twinkling merrily.

Caught completely off guard, Thranduil could only stare dumbly at the dwarf. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, hoping he’d simply heard incorrectly.

“Eyes like exquisite gemstones, and a waterfall of golden tresses that beg to be worshipped...”

Thranduil quickly glanced around, wondering if he was the subject of some elaborate prank. The royal guards wore similarly perplexed expressions, but it seemed as though the members of the Fellowship didn’t think anything at all was amiss. They were all grinning as the scene unfolded, their warm regard a bit odd, he thought, given the situation.

“May I have a strand?”

Thranduil gaped at the dwarf. “What?”

“A strand of your hair,” Gimli clarified, his smile broadening. “May I have one, so that I might treasure it and remember your beauty until the end of my days?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Oh, please?”

Wherever did the dwarf get such a ridiculous idea? “The answer is no!”

“Half a strand, then?” Gimli countered. “Perhaps plucked from the pillow whose feathered softness I now envy so deeply?” He took a step closer to the Elven-King, hand reaching towards the golden hair he seemed desperate to touch.

Thranduil stepped backwards in turn, holding his hand up when the guards started towards Gimli, their spears readied. “They are guests, and unless weapons are drawn they are to be treated as such,” he told them. “I’m sure they are all just very tired. Legolas,” he turned to his son, “please show your companions to their rooms.”

“Yes, Adar.”

He watched as they were escorted — somewhat reluctantly, it seemed — off the terrace. What in all of Arda was that about? Besides his hair, that is? Thranduil couldn’t even fathom what had prompted such a reaction from the dwarf, unless the motive had been to embarrass him or otherwise incite his ire… which, in hindsight, might very well be something one of Durin’s folk would try given the animosity that lay between their realms.

Thranduil huffed as he turned and left the terrace in the opposite direction, crossing a myriad of paths, archways, and steps until he eventually found his way back to the dim corridors of the royal wing. He hesitated just outside the door to his study, still a bit unnerved. Perhaps a nice hot bath was in order instead of focusing on the trade proposals that still awaited his attention. That way he could strategize on how to deal with the unruly dwarf should he continue with this absurd game. Eru knew he’d had enough disquietude in the past weeks; a bit of plotting sounded like... fun.

Grinning to himself, he turned and headed around the corner. One short flight of steps later, Thranduil entered his main suite of rooms. He heaved a sigh of relief as he swept into the bedroom, where he set his crown aside and sank into a chair beside the crackling fire that had already been lit. Its warmth eased his discomfort, both physical and mental. Pulling off his boots, he wiggled his toes inside the thick stockings he wore and closed his eyes. Peace, at last.

He’d been sitting a few minutes, lazily contemplating how much effort would be required to get himself undressed and into the heated spring that bubbled in the next room, when the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight on end. Ages of experience had taught him to trust his instincts implicitly, and right now they were telling him he was being watched. Very few would dare to enter his private space, and none of those would do so unannounced. 

Feigning casual movement, Thranduil stood, muscles tensing beneath his robes. In a lightning-fast move, he unsheathed the ceremonial sword he kept above his mantel, swirling both the blade and his body around in a series maneuvers that ultimately settled the business end of the weapon quite snugly against the neck of—

“Legolas?” Thranduil quickly pulled the blade away and took a step backwards. “Have you lost all common sense? I could have killed you.”

The prince smiled, his carriage completely relaxed. “You’re far too good a swordsman to accidentally kill someone, Ada. Besides, I was already in your chambers when you arrived. Galion let me in.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“I had to use the privy,” Legolas explained. “I didn’t think you would mind.”

Thranduil exhaled in relief. “No, of course not.” He returned the sword to its sheath and then began unbuttoning his outer robes. “I am pleased to see you, ion nín, even if under such dire circumstances.”

“I am pleased to see you, as well, Ada.” Legolas took hold of the surcoat and eased it off Thranduil’s shoulders before laying it across the back of the chair.

When the Elven-King turned around, he found his son gazing at him very intently, a small secretive smile touching his lips. He tilted his head, curious. “Legolas?”

The prince continued to stare at him adoringly. “For more than a millennium, I have stood proudly by your side, helping to protect this kingdom and allow it to flourish. But it wasn’t until this very day that I realized just how beautiful you are.”

Thranduil blinked in utter disbelief. “What is this you say?”

Legolas advanced on him. “So tall and majestic... and dangerous. I’ve seen you incapacitate an orc with your bare hands, and I can’t help but wonder how those battle-hardened fingers of yours would feel on my flesh,” he continued, rubbing his own palms up the front of Thranduil’s chest. “Would they be gentle? Or demanding?”

Thranduil was beyond words, he was so shocked. It took a moment, but he finally backed away, trying to put space between them, but Legolas wasn’t so easily dissuaded.

“Demanding, I think,” the prince decided, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Very demanding.”

“Legolas, this is wrong; I am your father,” he appealed.

Legolas’s smile turned predatory. “Do you not understand the allure of forbidden things, Ada? That which we mustn’t touch often holds the greatest treasures... or the greatest pleasures.”

Thranduil had been steadily backing away, desperately trying to comprehend the reasons for his son’s bizarre behavior, but when the edge of his bed effectively stopped his progress, Legolas made his move. Thranduil’s legs suddenly went out from underneath him, and he fell onto the mattress. Before he could roll away, Legolas was on him, restraining his arms high above his head.

“Legolas!” he barked, hoping his gruff tone would pierce through the lustful haze. Unfortunately, it had quite the opposite effect.

“Ahhh, Ada. You so enjoy being in charge, don’t you?” Still grinning, the prince leaned down until he was mere inches from Thranduil’s lips. “I think perhaps I would like a turn.”

Having had enough if this insanity, Thranduil yanked his hands free, only to find himself entangled in a no-holds-barred wrestling match of epic proportions with one very willing participant. Pillows flew... the sumptuous linens were rumpled and yanked... a precious porcelain vase watching from the sidelines even leapt to its death during the fray. And through it all, Legolas laughed his encouragement, his genuine delight absolutely dumbfounding his father.

Thranduil heaved the heavy body in his arms, finally pinning Legolas beneath him. “Stop!” he commanded.

“I love it when you’re cross,” Legolas purred, still trying to gain the upper hand. “So powerful and masculine...”

Setting his jaw, Thranduil gathered Legolas’s hands, pinning both of them down tightly with one of his own. He used his free hand to press open one of the hidden compartments in the headboard. A jumble of black cords fell onto the sheets, their sudden appearance bringing back memories that were both joyous and painful. Never in all the Ages of time itself could Thranduil have imagined he would be using them on his own son.

Legolas craned his neck. “Yes!” he cried on seeing the silken cords. “Bind me!”

As Thranduil worked to do just that, Legolas wrapped his legs around his waist and arched against him in a disturbingly sensual manner. It was all Thranduil could do to keep his mind blank. A small part of him couldn’t help but proudly acknowledge that his son had, without a doubt, inherited the same _large_ family attribute.

“Please hurry, Ada,” Legolas begged. “I can’t wait to be teased and tormented...”

“I shall do neither, ion nín,” he replied, tugging the last cord into place. He pulled free of Legolas’s legs and slid off the bed.

“Ada, please — this kind of torture is cruel.”

When he saw Legolas curl up and then flex his legs, attempting to loosen and dislodge the cords where they were tied to the bed, Thranduil quickly halted the endeavor, binding those limbs as well. “I’m not certain what’s come over you, Legolas, but this has to stop.”

“Ada, I love you! Can we not play together?”

“No.”

“Just once?” the prince asked. “I promise I won’t tell!” he finished in a whisper.

Thranduil turned to leave, grabbing his housecoat and slipping it on as he strode through the main room. He ignored Legolas’s warm declarations of adoration, eager to put as much distance as possible between them. The door latch submitted instantly to his shaky fingers, and moments later he found himself in the darkened corridor beyond, back pressed against the cool, welcome touch of a stone wall. Unable to think properly, he settled for scrubbing his face with both hands.

“My lord?”

The voice startled Thranduil, familiar though it was. Galion appeared at his side, obviously worried. “I am fine,” he told the butler, “but I need a favor.”

“Anything, my lord.”

“Please collect my son and escort him back to his chambers. He is to wait there until receiving instructions from me.”

Galion nodded. “Where is Prince Legolas?”

“He is—” How could he put this delicately? “He is... in my bedroom. And he is not himself,” Thranduil continued. “Take him through the back entrance. You may use whatever means are necessary to accomplish this task. Even force.”

Galion’s eyebrows rose. “Will guards be needed?”

Thranduil paused a moment. “Summon them only as a last resort. I fear Legolas will be embarrassed enough as it is.”

“As you wish,” the butler said, carefully checking the corridor before slipping into the royal suite.

Turning, Thranduil marched in the opposite direction, going down the stairs and rounding the corner until he was a few paces from his study. And that’s when he spotted him... a lone figure at the end of the hallway, drawing closer and closer, until his form slowly materialized from the shadows.

“Aragorn?” Thranduil asked, gaze fixing on the single red rose the ranger held in his hand. Trepidation filled his gut, along with profound disbelief. _Sweet Elbereth, what is happening here?_

“I was hoping to catch you alone, my lord.” Aragorn’s voice was warm and sure. He drew closer, not stopping until he was close enough to trail the soft petals of the rose down Thranduil’s cheek.

Thranduil shifted, gently pushing the man’s hand away. “Estel,” he implored, using the other’s Sindarin name for emphasis. It didn’t work; the sparkle in Aragorn’s eyes only brightened.

“You are beautiful beyond measure, my Lord Thranduil. Anor, Ithil... not even those remnants of Valinor’s hallowed Trees can outshine you. You are perfect in every way.”

Thranduil’s mind raced. There was something altogether nefarious at work. First the dwarf, then Legolas, and now Aragorn, all fixated on him? He needed peace and quiet to sort through his thoughts and formulate a plan of action.

“During your last stay here,” Thranduil said, slowly stepping around the ranger, “you spoke so longingly of a fair maiden. You were smitten, as was she.”

Aragorn shook his head. “There is no maiden fairer than thee, and none who speak to my soul with the same clarity of purpose.” He sank to his knees, holding the rose up between clasped hands. “I am yours, Thranduil. My heart proclaims an unfeigned oath of fealty to yo—”

“No, no!” Thranduil barked, holding up his finger for silence. “Do not say that.”

“But it is true!”

“No! When the Ring has been destroyed, you will return to your fair maiden and live happily ever after, with white picket fences and children enough to fill a whole palace.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened, his expression falling. “No, my lord!”

Having finally positioned himself between the ranger and the door to his study, Thranduil reached back and unlatched it quietly. “Yes! And trust me, you will love every moment!” he declared, quickly dashing inside and locking the door.

Mere seconds passed before Thranduil heard Aragorn’s pleas begin from the other side, accompanied by loud pounding. He ran a hand through his hair, cringing when the man’s voice rose, colored with passion and tears. The impossibility of the situation infused Thranduil with such a deep sense of dread, it was hardly bearable. Something had happened to the Fellowship. Something had changed them, misguiding their emotions. However was he to remedy this and return them to normal? Could that even be done? How long would he need to fend off their advances? And what of the quest? Would they agree to finish what they’d begun, or had his wish irreversibly changed the course of history?

_His wish..._

Thranduil’s mouth fell open, his wide-eyed gaze searching for and finding the crumpled cloth the mushroom had been in. He lunged for it, half-buried as it was on his desk. Had his wish somehow caused this mess? Crushing the material in his fist, he clenched his jaw and threw it across the room in a fit of fury.

Making a beeline for the bookcase in the far corner of his study, Thranduil pressed all of his weight on the right side of it. The cabinet gave way easily, pivoting until a space large enough for him to squeeze through had been made. Narrow steps lined with lanterns welcomed him on the other side. There was a set that curved up towards the back entrance to his private chambers, and another that led downward. After setting the bookcase back into place, Thranduil took a step down, only to come to a halt when he heard footsteps from above. Only a few individuals in all of Mirkwood knew of this hidden network of passages inside the Halls. He could only hope the person headed towards him now was not his son.

Much to Thranduil’s relief, it was Galion who rounded the corner and came into view. His expression was grim. “Prince Legolas is in his quarters, my lord,” he offered.

“Thank you, Galion.”

“My lord, he is quite... infatuated...”

Thranduil held up his hand. “I know.”

“I do not understand, my lord,” Galion admitted. He looked very uncomfortable, and Thranduil could hardly blame him for it.

“I suspect there is a spell at work — a very dastardly one at that,” he explained. “I intend to find out as quickly as possible.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Thranduil glanced up at his butler. “Yes, you can do your best to comfort Master Aragorn.”

Galion blinked in surprise.

“He is just outside my study, and he is... similarly afflicted.”

“Have you any ideas what I should do?” the butler asked, taking a step towards the bookcase.

Thranduil was at a loss. The entire situation was ridiculous beyond all reason. He held up his arms in defeat. “I haven’t a clue. Talk to him, hug him, let him cry on your shoulder... feed him some of my wine to settle his emotions. Whatever works. But be sure he is taken back to his quarters, and that he stays there. Post guards if necessary — the same applies to Legolas.”

“Yes, my lord.” Galion bowed, still looking rather shaken.

Thranduil immediately continued downward, through the dimly-lit passage that twisted first to the left, then to the right. Without even thinking, he burst through the first door he came to, yelling, “Feren!”

An elleth’s scream pierced the air, and Thranduil was immediately contrite, turning away from the amorous scene he’d so rudely interrupted. “I beg your forgiveness,” he implored. He’d never before forgotten to use the bell pull in his study as a means of warning Feren that he was on his way.

Behind him, the lovers scrambled to dress themselves. “How may I be of service, my lord?” Feren asked, stumbling his way over.

Thranduil took a deep breath. “Rally a small task force — the fastest guards available. I want the wizard Radagast found and brought back here posthaste!”

Feren nodded, turning to leave.

He stopped the guard with a gentle hand on the other’s shoulder. “I am truly sorry for this, Feren. I shall never again enter without putting you on alert.”

The grin that Feren gave Thranduil caused his brow to quirk. “Never fear, my lord. I consider this payback; we are now even.”

Memories from a similar, albeit reversed situation many centuries past flooded Thranduil’s mind. Of course, had he and his beloved wife chosen to take their love play somewhere private instead of his throne, of all places, nobody would have disturbed them to begin with. Laughter bubbled forth, the levity surprisingly liberating. “We are, indeed,” Thranduil told him. “I trust you to handle this assignment; there is some urgency involved.”

“It will be done, my lord,” Feren stated with a nod.

Thranduil watched him leave, and then spun half-way towards the poor elleth who stood on the other side of the room. He kept his gaze averted in deference while he bowed, holding his hand above his heart. “My sincerest apologies, my lady.”

Only half-dressed, the elleth held the rest of her clothing in front of her as she curtsied. “My lord.”

Thranduil then turned and slipped back into the passageway, eager to diffuse the awkward tension. He headed down another flight of narrow steps that bottomed out on the lowest level of the Halls. Cautiously, he cracked open the door there and peered into the darkness. There wasn’t anyone in that particular store room, thank the Belain.

Pushing against the boxes that concealed the entryway, he crept into the room, quietly reassembling the boxes by touch while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Once they had, he made his way out of the room. There was no one about, for which he was grateful. He was still wearing his housecoat and walking around in stocking-feet! Galion would need time to sort through the Aragorn fiasco, though; he would need to wait a while before he could return to his study.

He began to pace along the corridor, his thoughts once more turning to the wish over which he had labored so long. How could wanting to see his son again possibly translate into members of the Fellowship declaring their undying love for him? It was mystifying! Perhaps he’d done some part of the process incorrectly. Perhaps he should have heated the mushroom before consuming it? Sliced and sautéed? Thranduil rolled his eyes, knowing he was grasping at straws. There had to be a logical explanation. He would just have to wait to find out until that damnable wizard was brought before him.

A sound in the adjoining hallway distracted Thranduil, what seemed to him like a light shuffle of material, barely there. He listened intently, but heard nothing more. Curiosity piqued, he stepped forward. The barracks were located on this level, a bit further down, but this particular area housed only store rooms for extra weapons and non-perishable items. It wasn’t a place someone would be wandering around without purpose.

Quietly peeking around the corner, he was entirely unprepared for what happened next. The heavy weight of another person knocking into him stunned Thranduil beyond words, which was just as well since he found himself half-hoisted across the hallway and pressed into the wall there, a pair of eager lips closing over his own in a kiss that left him both completely out of breath and more than a little indignant. Forcefully pushing the other’s face away, he finally broke the connection. “Master Boromir, unhand me at once!”

Boromir grinned back, sliding one of his legs between Thranduil’s. “How odd; you struck me as the type who might enjoy it a bit rough,” he murmured, undulating his thigh just so.

Thranduil’s face heated as he fought to gain control of his traitorous body. “This is most improper,” he stated, trying to push the warrior away, but Boromir held fast. “How did you even find me down here?”

“Simple. I asked for a tour, anticipating that our paths would cross at some point. We were just finishing at the barracks when I caught a glimpse of the one who sets my heart afire,” he finished in a whisper. “I want you!”

“You cannot have me!”

Boromir chuckled lowly. “That’s not what the rest of you is saying.”

Thranduil inhaled deeply, bracing himself. He quickly jerked his knee up, nailing the man where he was most vulnerable. As predicted, Boromir let go of him and started to double over, eyes crossing against the pain. Then Thranduil swung upward with his fist, jabbing the underside of the other’s chin, safely knocking him out cold. He caught the man’s body as he fell, easing him to the ground.

“Guards!” he bellowed, still staring at Boromir. It wouldn’t have been his first choice to hurt the man, especially since he couldn’t really be held accountable for his actions. It was, however, the simplest way to end the encounter and minimize damage. Had any of Thranduil’s guards witnessed him being manhandled (quite literally) in such a manner, Boromir might have very well lost his life.

A group of Mirkwood warriors came running down the hallway, weapons already drawn. Thranduil calmed them with a simple hand gesture, letting them know he was in no immediate danger. “Take him back to his quarters,” he ordered, pointing towards Boromir, “and make sure he stays there until the evening meal.”

Thranduil turned and left the area then, knowing that if he stayed there would be questions asked — questions he definitely didn’t want to answer. Straightening his housecoat, he stalked through the corridors, no longer caring that he was dressed so informally. Every which way he turned, there was another lovesick member of the Fellowship waiting to accost him, it seemed, and his patience was growing thin.

He’d intended to head for his study, hoping to use the trade proposals as a diversion from all the madness, but he made the mistake of taking a shortcut through the cavern where his throne lay. He’d just finished crossing one of the archways when he noticed two figures not-so-successfully lying in wait behind one of the stone sculptures... two very small figures with bright eyes and enthusiastic smiles.

Not even waiting for the ensuing confrontation to happen, Thranduil calmly turned around and began walking back the way he’d come. A casual glance behind him confirmed his worst fear: the hobbits were following.

He quickened his steps; so did they.

He tried losing them around a series of sharp corners; they kept pace.

Tossing all caution to the wind, Thranduil broke into a full run, confident that his long legs could carry him far beyond their reach just long enough to escape through one of the hidden doors... which was why he found himself absolutely dumbfounded to note they were keeping up reasonably well.

Rounding a corner, he came to a screeching halt. “Wha—?” Those weren’t the same faces he’d seen before! No wonder it seemed like they’d been keeping pace with him; all four hobbits were now on the loose.

He switched direction yet again, jogging back out over the archway into the main cavern. A merry chase was at hand, or at least that’s what it must have seemed like to the hobbits if the volume of their laughter was any indication. Thranduil quickly discovered that trying to lose them amongst the zig-zagging paths and archways was futile. Their small stature allowed them to change direction much faster than he could. Out-distancing them was his only hope, and for that, he needed long stretches of corridors.

Thranduil caught sight of Galion standing in the first hallway he ran through. “Galion!”

The butler flattened himself against the wall as the Elven-King and hobbits barreled past. “My lord!” he yelled at their retreating forms. “Is this a game?”

“NO!” Though he could certainly understand the confusion. The hobbits looked far too young to have even ventured past the borders of the Shire.

One flight of stairs and two corridors later, Galion burst through a doorway, having obviously utilized a hidden shortcut to follow them. “Shall I call the guards?” he called down the hall.

Thranduil considered that for a few steps, then answered, “No! No guards!” There was no need to upset the hobbits. One in particular had enough of a burden on his tiny shoulders. Besides, it seemed like he was finally tiring them out. Glancing behind him, Thranduil saw the hobbits start to slow down, panting. A smile crossed his face. _Now I have them!_

While checking on the hobbits’ progress, Thranduil failed to notice that the corridor they were in was coming to an end. His inattention, as well as the fact that he was wearing only stockings, forced him to scramble at the last moment to stay upright while rounding the corner. Unfortunately, his attempt failed. His feet slipped out from under him and he landed on the ground with a resounding thud. Thranduil’s eyes widened in horror as four very excited, very determined hobbits closed in on him... and then pounced.

~ * ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations** :  
> fëa = soul  
> Belain = Sindarin word for the Valar  
> Mereth-nuin-Giliath = literally, “Festival Under the Stars”  
> Hîr nín Legolas? = My Lord Legolas?  
> Ada/Adar = Dad/Father  
> Ion nín = my son  
> Mae govannen, i vrannon nín = Well met, my lord  
> Arda = the world  
> Anor = the sun  
> Ithil = the moon  
> elleth = female elf  
> Nenya = The Ring of Water, worn by Galadriel


	3. Chapter 3

~ * ~ * ~

The King of the Woodland Realm sat quietly in his usual seat of honor in the feasting hall. The tables had been moved aside after the meal, as usual, to make room for the evening’s entertainment. There were minstrels and dancers and storytellers — the usual performers, along with the usual assemblage of spectators. The only thing that wasn’t usual was the small cadre of guards that stood at attention beside their king. After spending an entire afternoon being chased, kissed, and fondled, Thranduil had decided enough was enough. He’d politely ignored all the curious looks he and his sentinels had received from his people throughout the evening... as well as the lovelorn glances from members of the Fellowship, all of whom had thus far shown great restraint by keeping their hands and lips to themselves.

The mood, which had started out rather lively, with many toasts and well-wishes for the Fellowship, quickly shifted to one of sadness when Thranduil revealed that Mithrandir had been lost in the Mines of Moria. The minstrels then sang of the wizard’s kindness and wisdom, and the storytellers regaled eager listeners with tales of Mithrandir’s greatest adventures. It was a fitting tribute to one whose presence had left a trail of warm, cherished memories behind.

An impromptu choir had just begun to sing a traditional lament when Galion appeared at Thranduil’s side. “My lord,” he whispered. “Radagast has been escorted to the main conference room.”

Finally, some answers!

Thranduil quietly excused himself from the hall, his guards in tow. When they arrived, he bade them to remain outside the chamber; the conversation at hand was most definitely for no one’s ears but his own. Bracing himself, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Radagast was seated at the head of the large, beautifully carved wooden table. His normally shabby attire was now in tatters. His sleeves hung off his arms in long shreds; it looked as though one side of his hat had been blown completely off; his face and hands were covered in soot, and his eyes... those friendly blue eyes that always seemed to have a slightly maniacal cast to them looked... well, they looked rather _unfriendly_ at the moment.

“What in Eru’s name happened to you?” Thranduil asked.

The wizard glared at him. “Your guards happened, that’s what.”

Entirely confused, Thranduil blinked at him. “What?”

“I was in the middle of formulating a very volatile potion when they arrived,” Radagast explained. “Did they ask permission to enter? No. Did they explain their sudden appearance? No. They simply barged in, grabbed me by the arms, and whisked me away from my cauldron. Without the proper incantation, the mixture I was working on destabilized. I’ll be lucky if I can salvage any of Rhosgobel’s structure after that explosion.”

Thranduil felt suitably guilty. “I offer sincere apologies for this misfortune. You will be compensated with supplies and personnel to help you rebuild.”

“I should hope so,” the wizard groused.

Taking a deep breath, Thranduil continued, “My need for your counsel was quite urgent, however.”

“What could possibly be so important that you felt the need to have me hijacked?”

“I believe something went wrong with my wish!”

The first sign of a smile tugged at Radagast’s lips. “Ahhh, the wish. Did you receive what you asked for?”

“Yes,” Thranduil said, “but—”

“Well, then it worked!”

“I also received something I didn’t ask for!”

Radagast sat back in his chair, eyeing the king most amusedly. The maniacal glint was back. “My dear King Thranduil, why do I get the impression that you were not _listening_ carefully when we bartered all those weeks ago?”

“I heard you perfectly well.”

“Even the part about the consequence?”

Gritting his teeth, Thranduil closed his eyes and counted to ten, desperately fighting back a wave of panic. “Refresh my memory,” he finally murmured.

“As I told you,” Radagast began, “the mushroom contained no simple spell. It was blessed by the Belain, and when you’re dealing with higher-ups, there is no such thing as a free lunch.”

Thranduil’s brow furrowed.

“If they are asked to interfere with the goings-on of Middle-earth in order to grant a wish,” the wizard clarified, “the recipient of that wish must be prepared for a sacrifice of some kind in exchange — at the discretion of the Belain, of course.”

Thranduil fumbled for words, his thoughts swirling frantically. “Is there... is there some way to minimize the negative effect, or reverse it altogether?”

Radagast shrugged. “I don’t know. I imagine it would all depend on what they imposed upon you.”

Pulling out a chair, Thranduil sank into it, feeling far wearier than he ever had before. “All I wanted was to see my son again,” he whispered.

Leaning forward, Radagast asked, “That was your wish?”

Thranduil nodded. “I’d hoped my wish meant he would survive the quest. Instead, the entire Fellowship of the Ring was redirected here. Their journey to Mordor has barely begun.”

“That was a very heartfelt request, my lord,” the wizard offered gently. His eyebrow quirked as he gazed upon the Woodland King. “So... what went wrong, if I might ask?”

“The members of the Fellowship have spontaneously developed amorous feelings for me,” he answered, staring blankly at the table top. “Rather intense amorous feelings.”

Moments later, Thranduil was startled from his haze of self-pity when Radagast suddenly burst out laughing. The wizard nearly doubled over, pounding on the table in his mirth. “Oh, I never would have imaged they had such a sense of humor!” he cackled.

“This is not funny!” Thranduil countered, his ire growing. “My own son is amongst my paramours!”

“Oh, dear,” the wizard said, covering his mouth, though he continued to chuckle. “That is a problem.”

“Problem, indeed! How am I to fix this? As ardent as their declarations have been, I cannot imagine they will leave here willingly, and there is a quest that must be completed!”

Struggling to get his amusement under control, Radagast managed to say, “Ah, but the solution seems rather obvious to me.”

Thranduil glared.

Still smiling, the wizard continued to gaze evenly at him. “You must give in.”

“What?”

“You must accept the advances of one of them,” Radagast explained. “That is the sacrifice those naughty Belain appear to be demanding of you. Once you have, I would guess the unwanted effects will disappear as quickly as they began.”

Thranduil swallowed thickly. “Is there no other way?”

Radagast pondered a few moments, but then shook his head a bit reluctantly. “If there is, I’m not seeing it.”

After a very expectant pause, Thranduil pushed his chair back and stood on legs that were just a bit shaky. “I will take your suggestion under advisement.”

“Well,” the wizard began, obviously understanding that their discussion was officially over, “as I appear to be without a home for the moment, may I request a few days’ respite within your Halls, my lord?”

“Of course,” Thranduil said, snapping out of his shocked stupor. “I will be sure the appropriate arrangements are made, both for your stay and for your home. In the meantime,” he continued, “I think perhaps the evening’s activities in the feasting hall might be of interest to you.”

Radagast cocked his head, curious.

“Mithrandir is no more,” he explained sadly, knowing the two wizards had been good friends. “He was lost three days ago, a casualty of the quest to destroy the One Ring. Many have gathered to honor his memory.”

All remaining amusement drained from Radagast’s expression, a mist of tears glazing his bright eyes. Slowly, he removed what was left of his hat and held it over his heart. Even the song birds seemed subdued, burrowed quietly in their nest. “I think...” the wizard trailed off, and then started again. “I have a few stories I could share. Grand adventures the two of us undertook...”

Mindful of the fragile atmosphere, Thranduil spoke softly. “I am quite certain everyone would enjoy hearing them.”

Nodding, Radagast got up from his chair and followed him to the door. Galion was waiting just outside, ever faithful. After making sure the butler was fully informed of all that needed to be done to aid the wizard, Thranduil took his leave of them, his mind turning back to the matter that left him reeling.

_You must give in..._

Thranduil was not opposed to casual encounters by any means, but not having a say in the matter made the whole situation more than a little unpleasant. Who should he choose? Legolas was out of the question, of course; not even the Belain could demand that of him. The dwarf? Thranduil snorted as that possibility crossed his mind. If all Gimli wanted was a strand of his hair, he would gladly surrender one in order to end this madness, but what if that wasn’t all the dwarf wanted? Really... the Elven-King of Mirkwood sharing a bed with a dwarf from Erebor? The notion was beyond absurd!

His thoughts then wandered to the hobbits. He knew they were all adults by Shire standards — the Council of Elrond would never have sanctioned the help of children on this quest. Yet, they all looked so young... And what of the humans? Aragorn, he knew, was deeply in love with Arwen of Rivendell. To accept his advances would surely cause much discomfort for both of them in the aftermath. Thranduil would never willingly be the cause of disloyalty for anyone where matters of the heart were concerned.

That left Boromir. He was the only logical choice.

As they arrived at the entrance to his private chambers, Thranduil turned to his guards. “Your services are no longer required here,” he told them, “but I want guards posted near the guest quarters at all times. Keep them in their chambers.” Thranduil hesitated a few moments before continuing, “Master Boromir, however, is free to wander where he pleases.”

“My lord?”

“Those are my orders,” Thranduil stated firmly. “Dismissed.”

The guards turned and left immediately, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls. Thranduil stood rooted in place for a few minutes, wondering if he’d made a grave error. If this didn’t work, he couldn’t even imagine how difficult life would be for all of them. Eventually, Thranduil slipped into his suite, purposely leaving the door ajar by a finger length.

The comfort of routine settled him somewhat. He bathed and dressed himself in a silk robe of the purest royal blue. A glass of wine, enjoyed slowly, warmed him, as did the fire in his hearth. He stood looking out the window in his bedroom for hours, memorizing every detail of the trees beyond. His mind was willfully blank — it need not be engaged at all for the rest of the evening; he was quite certain his body would respond well enough without it.

Well into the early hours of the morning, Thranduil finally heard the distinct shuffle of someone quietly entering his chambers. He knew it wasn’t Galion; his trustworthy butler was polite to a fault, and would have knocked first to make his presence known. Anyone else in his kingdom wouldn’t have dared to enter at all without permission. No, this was precisely who Thranduil had been waiting for — the sound of the door closing and the lock being engaged confirmed that.

He waited, still peering out the window while a flutter of nerves churned in the pit of his stomach. Footsteps approached, a whispered, “Beautiful...” washing over him as lightly as a morning mist. Taking one last sip of his wine, Thranduil blindly set the goblet on the chest of drawers beside him. He stood perfectly still until he felt the presence of the other directly behind him. Then, before he could change his mind, he whirled around, grasping the man’s face and pulling him into a searing kiss... which lasted mere moments before Thranduil pulled back, shocked and confused.

His eyes widened, jaw dropping open while he struggled mightily to form even a single word. But words didn’t appear to be necessary — not to his companion, at least, who very quickly moved to finish what Thranduil had started. Eager lips descended upon him in a kiss filled with such fiery passion that he melted against his lover, succumbing at last to the sweetness of the moment.

~ * ~ * ~

Thranduil reclined amid the tangle of sheets on his bed, lazily fingering the headboard behind him as he watched his lover stumble about, picking up and then donning his pristine raiment. A lascivious grin touched the Elven-King’s lips as he tossed back the bedding and stood, entirely unselfconscious of his nudity... or his very obvious state of arousal. Slowly, he stalked towards the other, employing every last drop of sensuality he possessed. Naturally, his tactic worked.

Perfectly.

His companion stopped what he was doing, captivated by the scene before him. That made it far easier for Thranduil to invade the other’s personal space, maneuvering both of them until he had his lover trapped snugly against the wall. Leaning in until their lips almost touched, he softly purred, “You are most certainly not dead, my dear Mithrandir. To that I can attest with great confidence.”

“Yes, well...” the wizard mumbled, clearing his throat. “I’m a bit surprised by it all myself.”

Thranduil closed the distance, offering a light, teasing kiss that held the promise of oh, so much more. “Had I even suspected what kind of... vitality... lay beneath your robes, I would have invited you to my bed centuries ago.”

Mithrandir chuckled, somewhat nervously. “I’m not entirely certain what came over me last evening — not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he added quickly.

Smiling, Thranduil captured his lips once more, thoroughly plundering until the wizard was quite breathless, and even then he didn’t stop, offering playful nips that left the wizard visibly trembling. Finally pulling back, he trailed long fingers down Mithrandir’s white robes, murmuring, “I could have sworn these were grey the last time we met.”

“Ahh, they were, yes.”

Thranduil quirked a brow.

Mithrandir looked a bit sheepish. “The whites were a gift. From a lady friend.”

Feigning jealousy, Thranduil narrowed his eyes. Only the grin that tugged at his mouth gave away his true feelings. “Surely they would look far better draped across a chair, don’t you agree?” His wandering fingers moved to undo the clasps, only to be stopped by the other’s gentle grasp.

“I really do need to be on my way,” Mithrandir told him, “and the members of the Fellowship are overdue for their meeting in Lothlórien.”

Comforted only slightly by the obvious regret in the wizard’s tone, Thranduil closed his eyes. Much as he hated to admit it, Nenya could do more to shield the Fellowship than he could here in Mirkwood. The company would be far safer there, Legolas included.

Thoughts of his son and the impossible quest at hand tore through the aura of contentment Thranduil had basked in since Mithrandir’s appearance. It was as painful as a dagger slicing through a vulnerable expanse of skin. He’d made his wish, and it had been granted. There was nothing more he could control, no new wish he could utter to keep Legolas safe. The only thing left to do was to let his son go.

When he reopened his eyes, he found Mithrandir watching him carefully, kindness and understanding written in his expression. “Hope is a very powerful emotion, even in the face of seemingly irrepressible darkness,” the wizard said. “Do not lose that hope, Thranduil. Ever.”

The Elven-King inclined his head respectfully, acknowledging the wisdom of Mithrandir’s words.

Producing a scroll from his pocket, the wizard handed it to Thranduil. It bore the seal of Lady Galadriel. “The time is not right for me to reveal myself to the Fellowship,” he continued. “They mustn’t know that I was here. This missive will alert them to the timeliness of their business in Lothlórien without giving away my presence.”

“Why did you deliver it personally rather than sending it by bird?”

“I wanted to be sure they were all right,” Mithrandir said. “Of course, I never expected such an enthusiastic welcome.”

“No regrets?” The Thranduil asked, amused.

The wizard grinned wryly. “None.”

Reaching up, Thranduil cradled one of Mithrandir’s cheeks, stroking the skin he found there. “You will always be welcome here, Mithrandir,” he offered, his voice lowering to a whisper as he finished, “especially here.”

The wizard chuckled, turning his head just enough to place a quick kiss on Thranduil’s palm. “I intend to hold you to that, my lord.”

Thranduil watched him turn and leave, despair once more threatening to take control of his heart. He fought against it, though, knowing he needed to exude his usual confidence and strength during the day’s farewells. It simply wouldn’t do to let Legolas continue on his journey with anything less than his father’s full support. With one last look around the room, and all the warm memories it brought back, Thranduil set about dressing himself for the day.

~ * ~ * ~

Thranduil’s appearance just outside the main gates caused a bit of a stir. Guards snapped to attention, many of them shuffling back to their posts after having been caught visiting with the Fellowship. He couldn’t really blame them; the company was about to continue on a quest some of the younger Mirkwood warriors could only imagine in their dreams... and one some of the older warriors relived all too easily in their nightmares.

The members of the Fellowship were huddled near the steeds they’d been given for their journey to Lothlórien, many of them tossing nervous glances in his direction, their faces heating with shame. Thranduil almost smiled at that. Instead, he placed his right fist above his heart and bowed, closing his eyes to impart the depth of his silent message. There were no hard feelings... none at all.

Legolas approached then, looking quite wretched. It was an uncomfortable moment for both of them as his son came to a stop, unable, at first, to meet his gaze. “On behalf of the entire Fellowship, I would like to formally apologize for our behavior—”

Thranduil placed his hand on Legolas’s shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “There is no need, ion nín. What happened was nobody’s fault but my own.”

Legolas looked up at him, startled. “Then... you know why we all acted so inappropriately?”

He sighed heavily. “It is a very long and bizarre story, one for which you do not have time, unfortunately. But, yes, I do know why.”

It took a while, but Legolas finally grinned. “Knowing that, I think I can forgive myself for jumping you.”

Thranduil’s eyebrow rose just a smidgen, his blue eyes sparkling.

“But,” Legolas continued, his own eyes filled with mirth, “I’m having a much harder time reconciling the fact that my father owns a set of silks.”

“They aren’t mine.”

Legolas shot him a dubious look.

Thranduil let his statement hang in the air for a bit, teasing, before he finally admitted, “They belonged to your mother. And that,” he insisted when Legolas’s eyes widened impossibly, “stays between you and me.” He nearly laughed outright at the shade of crimson that spread across his son’s face all the way to the tips of his ears.

After another awkward pause, Legolas’s humor returned. “That’s quite a revelation,” he replied thoughtfully. “Not the sort I expected on the cusp of such a perilous adventure.”

“You were envisioning something far more valuable?”

A devious grin spread across the archer’s face. “Oh, I’m quite sure this will be valuable. I foresee great inspiration in the darkest of moments to come: when in despair, Legolas, just remember the silks,” he finished with a half-stifled chuckle.

This time Thranduil did laugh, a loud, heartfelt sound that caused all around them to smile in stunned surprise. It had quite literally been millennia since he’d shown that kind of emotion openly, but Mirkwood’s King couldn’t be bothered to care. He reached out and pulled his son into a tight embrace, one that was very enthusiastically returned. They stood like that for a long time, the light-hearted mood quietly dissipating into something more serious and profound.

When they finally pulled apart, Thranduil rested his forehead against his son’s. “Please take care, Legolas.”

Legolas smiled, patting Thranduil’s arm. “All will be well, Ada.”

“How can you have such faith, ion nín?” He glanced towards the Fellowship. “Such faith in a tiny hobbit that holds the destiny of the entire world on his shoulders?”

“Master Baggins’s heart and soul are pure. That kind of strength is very powerful, especially against the evil we carry with us that must be destroyed,” Legolas insisted. “He will succeed.”

A moment of painful dread clenched at Thranduil’s heart. “Perhaps if I came with you—”

“No, Ada.”

“I know the lay of the land; I’ve been there.”

“Ada, you cannot leave this kingdom so vulnerable. These are dark times — anything could happen. You are the strength and courage of our people; they need you here.”

“Legolas...”

His son smiled softly then. “I know you wish to keep me safe, to keep the whole company safe. But this is a path I must walk alone. If it is my destiny to travel to the Halls of Awaiting, then I will gladly do so if it means that my life was forfeit in the name of peace.” At Thranduil’s tormented expression, Legolas gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “We will see each other again, Ada, either sooner or later. I’m betting on sooner.”

Any further conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Radagast, who went to offer his well-wishes to the travelers. Legolas slipped away to join them, then, and Thranduil knew his precious moments with his son had come to an end. He gave the members of the Fellowship a few minutes together before he, too, stepped towards them. Silence descended as he approached, everyone bowing respectfully. With a small smile, Thranduil addressed the group of travelers. He spoke at length of courage and hope, of good and evil. He told them of his own experiences in Mordor, and how many of Mirkwood’s warriors had been there so long ago, as well. He spoke of loss and sacrifice and honor, of selfless deeds — such as their own — that minstrels bring to life again and again in countless mead and feasting halls across Middle-earth. And then he wished them a safe and swift journey, finishing with a prayer to Eru Ilúvatar.

The company finally mounted their horses and ponies, and, with Legolas in the lead, began the next leg of their quest. Thranduil rode behind them on a black stallion through the woods of Mirkwood, his thoughts turning back to the mushroom, the wish, and all that had transpired as a result. Part of him was eternally grateful that he’d had the chance to be with Legolas, short as their time together had been. He’d been gifted with one last memory of his son’s laughter, and one last embrace. He would cherish them deeply.

Another part of him couldn’t help but wonder how the Belain could have been so indifferent to the pleas of a distraught father. Perhaps it entertained them to watch people suffer so. The wish they had granted had felt like more of an afterthought, a small bone tossed to a starving hound. He’d labored so long and so hard over the wish; he’d fussed and mused, vacillating between giddy happiness and utter despair again and again... he’d wept! And all he’d really wanted was just one small sign that his son’s fate involved living a long and happy life here on Arda.

Thranduil slowed his steed as they neared the border. As much as he wanted to, it was not his place to follow any farther. The members of the Fellowship continued on quietly, single-file. Just before they disappeared around a bend, Legolas turned in his saddle and gave him a warm smile. The archer touched his fist to his heart and then held out his hand to him in farewell. Thranduil returned the gesture in kind, feeling his heart sink.

He sat there for a long time, still staring at the now empty trail, listening until he could no longer hear the sounds of their retreat. There was some anger and frustration and fear swirling in his heart, but mostly he just felt numb. Perhaps that was for the best.

Just as he was about to turn his horse around to leave, an unfamiliar chirping caught Thranduil’s attention. Curious, he scanned the trees, searching for the source of the sound. When he finally beheld that which was singing so sweetly, his eyes widened in shock. There, perched in a low-hanging tree just to his left, was a bird so rare that it was the subject of legends. The beautiful scarlet thrush, so tiny and delicate, was a good omen, or so the tales went. This boded well for the Fellowship — more than well, he believed!

The little red and black bird flitted up higher into the canopy as he watched, continuing with its cheerful song. Then it came back down, perching this time in a tree on the other side of the trail. Thranduil regarded the thrush with awe. He’d never encountered anyone who had seen one before.

More joyful chirping ensued while the bird looked around. And then it did something for which Thranduil was entirely unprepared: its little black eyes locked with his, holding his gaze for many long moments while remaining perfectly still. Thranduil was stunned, amazed — even more so when it began singing a slightly different song to him, this one warm and soothing, with far less excited pitches. As the short song faded away, the thrush broke eye contact to look down the trail and cock its head. Then it looked back at Thranduil... right before speeding away, following the path the Fellowship had taken.

Thranduil trembled, his vision swimming with tears. He tried to rein in the emotion, but it was simply too strong. Feeling a profound sense of solace overcome him, he bowed his head, closing his eyes as a single teardrop slid down his cheek. Because after all the pain and heartache, after all the madness and the grief, after all the curses and the anger he’d aimed at the Belain for their apathy, Thranduil suddenly realized with perfect clarity that they’d heard his pleas all along.

~ * ~ finis ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations** :  
> fëa = soul  
> Belain = Sindarin word for the Valar  
> Mereth-nuin-Giliath = literally, “Festival Under the Stars”  
> Hîr nín Legolas? = My Lord Legolas?  
> Ada/Adar = Dad/Father  
> Ion nín = my son  
> Mae govannen, i vrannon nín = Well met, my lord  
> Arda = the world  
> Anor = the sun  
> Ithil = the moon  
> elleth = female elf  
> Nenya = The Ring of Water, worn by Galadriel


End file.
